


Te Quiero

by shippingandmusicians



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clarke's Perspective, F/F, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:36:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shippingandmusicians/pseuds/shippingandmusicians
Summary: 10 parts of a prose poem about Lexa and Clarke.-She burns and I burn with her until we dance in ashes.





	

_je l'aime à mort, mais pour la vie_

i.  
I want to listen to her heartbeat echo through my bones. I want it to shatter everything I think I am and liquify me; distilled, until I am nothing less than moonshine.

ii.  
Her words are upon my tongue. They slur and dip, grate and roll on the roof of my mouth. I do not speak this language - it is something godly.

iii.  
Scars - raised flesh that belongs only to her people just as all they have taken from her. White as sightless pain, numb as bloodless cold.

Ink marks - under her skin, to remain for the frail human equivalent of eternity. She is her own and only her own. Sometimes the shapes writhe and whisper, wordless itches reminding her that power is a duty, settled on her shoulders like a century of earth and dust.

Small wounds (of lust) - crescent moons carved by clutching fingers, bruises made from galaxies of smashed capillaries, red trails of selfless want curving among the contours of hard muscles. Every part of her is raw as an exposed nerve. She is mine, and only mine.

iv.  
I kiss her after battle, feet steady in puddles of red. The easy curve of my lips against hers makes me human. The apathetic curve of my fingers against a trigger makes me human. Holy and monstrous.

v.   
Still, I remain surprised when she allows me to curl my arms around her back, hand splayed possessively over the nape of her neck. To trust me with the flutter of her pulse, the array of delicate bones guarding nerves and veins, so easily crushed - I know I am not deserving of it.

vi.  
When the name Costia falls from clumsy lips, her jaw tightens and her chin dips very slightly, as if she is giving a small nod of remembrance and leftover grief. She wishes it to be trivial, as all of her teachings dictate, but still her eyes search for what once was and her muscles ache in memory. I can see the ragged hole of death ripped into the fabric of her being, see how it was never stitched together or concealed but left to tear at the edges. She could be carved of stone, or perhaps of marble as the light glances off her cheekbones and her lips play at the edge of emotion while remaining still as silence. In this moment, I understand how tragedy can be devastatingly beautiful.

vii.  
I'm holding a knife to her throat and already it slips in my palm. She could disarm me at any moment, but she will not, and she knows I am aware of this. She is asking me to hand her the fate of my people. She is trusting me to make the decision, and I hate her for it. I hate her for valuing my worthlessness, for mistaking murder for defense. The knife clatters against the ground too forcefully as a few bitter tears trail acid down my cheeks. I hate myself for turning into this, because I know she, too, will become a martyr like everyone I touch. Another grave left in my wake, perhaps one where I stop to kneel longer than at all the others, that is to say, kneel at all. I can only wonder if this will stop me, when nothing else has. I do not recognize myself anymore.

viii.  
She spars with deadly nonchalance, playing a battle song with sharp clacks of her weapon. Her braids shift as she dances back and forth, a lion's mane. She is good at this, excellent, even, but she takes no pride in her efficiency. It cages her, this simple violence, and I know she will never be free. The ugliest beings on earth are humans.

ix.  
We lie together, sprawled and flushed. She glows golden, and I reach for her. She is angelic. Her touch sears through me, gasping. I entertain the prospect of doing this forever. Of letting the world tumble from our shoulders and destroy itself, while we carve each other into our bones. Until there is nothing left.

x.  
She is dying. I should have seen it before it came, but that doesn't matter now. Her blood runs like water, soaking the ground black. The stars draped over us mock our fickle material bodies, but even they do not burn eternal. She is worth more than the sun, yet here she lies. I hold her while she still breathes so I can remember when she does not.  
Take care of our people, Clarke.  
I will, I say, I will.   
For once, the rest of the world is set aside. For once, she can be selfish. But still she is not. A single tear rolls over her skin as she whispers  
Clarke? I love you.  
I would say it back but now she's cold and I know I did not love her enough. Our roles should be reversed. I can’t look at her. Instead I watch myself choke on my own blood until it is seared onto my eyelids.   
It's pooling in the back of my throat.  
She is gone.  
I am fading.

_donc comme tout le monde je vais en souffrir, jusqu’à la mort_

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment or talk to me @shippingandmusicians on tumblr.


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